It began with trembling fingers.
Keita stared at the empty page like it was a mirror—reflecting everything he had lost.
Emi's laugh.
Her drawings.
The warmth of her hand in his.
Gone.
He reached for his pen.
If this is what the world wants... then let them choke on it.
---
The first panel was simple.
A girl smiling, unaware that her world would crumble.
Then a boy—her boyfriend—clueless, innocent.
Then the shadow in the background. A hand. A smirk. A lie.
Keita hated every stroke. Every line that twisted trust into lust. Every panel that violated the very ideals he used to cherish.
But he kept going.
One hour bled into two.
Two into a day.
A day into a week.
---
It became a fever.
He drew obsessively, possessed. His hand never stopped moving, except to sharpen a pencil or wipe away sweat.
He stopped eating. Only drank water from the tap.
He ignored the flies near the garbage.
He didn't sleep.
---
The scenes poured out of him.
A stolen glance. A betrayal. A kiss that should never have happened. The slow descent into something that could never be undone.
He heard his characters whisper in his mind. Not the cheerful voices of the past—but sickly, mocking ones.
"You're good at this, Keita."
"This is what you were born to draw."
"Filth becomes you."
He grit his teeth and kept going.
---
Ironically, it was the best work of his life.
His paneling was razor sharp. Pacing—flawless. Expression—visceral.
There was technical brilliance in how he made the reader feel disgust, shock, shame, arousal, and pain—all in a single page turn.
He knew it. He saw it.
And he hated it.
---
The final page came after sixteen sleepless nights.
A close-up of the girl's face—betrayed, crying, broken.
But drawn with such haunting beauty it took his breath away.
He stared at her for a long time.
It was the face of his wife.
No—not hers.
His guilt simply painted her into the victim.
Maybe he was the one being drawn now.
---
He printed the manuscript, bound it carefully, wrapped it in brown paper.
On the front, he scrawled in black marker: "For Serialization Consideration – Keita Sumeragi"
He sat with it on his lap for a full hour.
The silence in the room screamed at him.
---
At 4 a.m., he walked to the mailbox two blocks away and dropped the manuscript in.
The sound of it hitting the bottom echoed like a final nail in a coffin.
Thud.
---
He returned home, collapsed on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Then he laughed.
It was dry, bitter.
"Look at me now, Emi. Papa finally did it."
His laugh turned to tears.
He cried until the sun came up.
---
Three days later, his phone rang.
It was Tanaka.
Keita hesitated, then answered.
"You read it?"
A pause.
Then: "It's… exceptional."
Keita blinked.
"It's cruel, it's vile, and I hate myself for saying this—but it's the most emotionally precise, technically brilliant draft I've read from you. Ever."
Silence stretched.
Tanaka spoke again, carefully.
"The board is interested. I think we can serialize it next season. You'll be credited. Paid well."
A glimmer of hope sparked in Keita's chest.
He sat up straighter.
"But," Tanaka continued, "there's been a slight change."
Keita frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well, they… decided to go with a younger artist. One with more 'market appeal.' They're keeping your story, though. He'll redraw it. You'll get co-credit for the concept."
Co-credit.
Not artist.
Not author.
Just… idea man.
Keita's fingers clenched the phone.
"Is that a joke?" he asked quietly.
Tanaka sighed. "Keita, this is the best we can do. Be grateful. You're getting a decent payout. Think about your family."
Keita chuckled. It was hollow.
"My family left me, Tanaka."
More silence.
"Right," Tanaka muttered. "Well… the deal stands. Congratulations."
He hung up.
---
Keita stared at the wall for a long time.
Then at the drawing of Emi as a magical girl.
---
That night, he sat down and wrote a letter.
To Emi.
To himself.
To whoever might find it.
---
He walked to the rooftop of his apartment building just before dawn.
The city was still asleep.
The sky bled purple.
He looked down.
The streets were far away. Like another world.
He took a deep breath.
---
No tears.
Just a small smile.
Like an old friend had come to walk him home.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Then he stepped forward.
---
The wind rushed past him.
The world blurred.
And everything turned white.
---
To be continued